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undulates around me. Merchants shout in the street outside, and the smoky odor of cow dung drifts into my nose. I lie still, taking in the peculiar angle of morning light, the curved, high ceiling, and Auntie’s echoing voice as she talks to Ma and Kali in the dining room. After three trips back to India, I’m still a stranger here. Then my heart sinks as I remember—I’m going to see Pandit Parsai today.
    I sit up and rub sleep from my eyes. My limbs and eyelids are heavy. My tongue swells with thirst. I miss my apartment, the windows with screens, the newspaper outside my doorevery morning. San Francisco is an ache in my chest, a memory of fresh ocean air, clean streets, privacy, no mosquito nets, no dust.
    I have the chills. I’m getting sick. Parasites worm their way into my stomach and remind me I don’t belong here. My body has gone soft from the easy life in America. I could never survive here, with malaria and dysentery roaming the streets like criminals waiting for the next foreign victim.
    I untuck the mosquito net and step down onto the cold concrete floor, unknown territory. The gecko could be hiding under the bed. I scuttle to the bathroom, then gasp when I catch a reflection in the mirror. Someone else slipped in here with me, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed woman with tangled hair. Omigod, that’s me.
    The astrologer will think Auntie plucked a wild ape from the jungle, draped clothes on her, and brought her home to the family. A new pet.
    At least the bathroom has a door, although there’s no lock. I’m nearly out of toilet paper. There’s no paper dispenser by the toilet, only a water tap, which I’ll never learn to use. People here master the art of self-washing from day one. I vaguely remember my two-year-old niece screaming as her Ma tried to teach her to wash. By the time she turned four, the practice had become second nature for her.
    My relatives probably think American customs are filthy. Wiping with toilet paper? No washing? Here, the paper rollsare thin and expensive—maybe a few American dollars per roll—and the tissue as rough as sandpaper. Each roll is encased in a secret unmarked wrap, like contraband. Or an artifact. I imagine toilet paper under glass at the local museum, labeled as a perverse American curiosity.
    I use the last few squares. Maybe I’ll find some crumpled Kleenex tissue in my luggage. I hope.
    Then I get in the shower, the lukewarm water trickling from the showerhead in an annoying thin stream. Cold water pools on the floor, and the threadbare white towel isn’t thick enough to wipe it up. It takes me twenty minutes to get my body marginally clean, and I’m even more convinced that I’ll never belong in this country. I’m a slave to creature comforts.
    After breakfast, Auntie and I squeeze into the Ambassador bound for Pandit Parsai’s flat near New Market, in the city center. We wind along narrow, bumpy roads choked with Ambassador taxis, buses, tongas, bullock carts, and jaywalkers. I hold my nose against the reek of burning cow dung and exhaust. Grime settles in every pore of my skin. Our driver, a fearless, brown-skinned Evel Knievel, hurtles through traffic, jolting to a stop, yelling at crowds congregating in the streets. A cacophony of car horns blares against the onslaught of pedestrians, mangy white dogs, and the occasional bony cow.
    My heart flits like a hummingbird. The damp air plastersmy shirt to my back. Just riding through the city is an exercise in fortitude. I’d rather visit the elegant Victoria Memorial—built to honor Queen Victoria—the botanical gardens, or the Birla planetarium. I’d rather do anything but see Pandit Parsai.
    Kali escaped to Chowringhee Bazaar to buy saris. She knew if she came with me, the pandit would predict her future, too. Ma and Baba went to visit a second cousin named Sugar or Sweetie or Sweet’n Low—I can’t keep track of my